


Nothing Needs Fixing (You're Perfect the Way You Are)

by onceuponamoon



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-09-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:59:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceuponamoon/pseuds/onceuponamoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe if the walls weren’t thinner than paper then Gerard wouldn’t hear every word exchanged between his father and the psychiatrist. Because really, it’s not like he likes to hear the shit his father won’t say to his face. He respects his father—really, he does…it’s just getting harder as he’s getting older and realizing how much Don cares about what people think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am a lying liar that lies. This is purely a work of fiction. I do not, in any way, profit from this fictional creation or own any characters in this story. I own absolutely nothing.

_“We want you to fix our son, Doctor.”_

Maybe if the walls weren’t thinner than paper then Gerard wouldn’t hear every word exchanged between his father and the psychiatrist. Because really, it’s not like he likes to hear the shit his father won’t say to his face. He respects his father—really, he does…it’s just getting harder as he’s getting older and realizing how much Don cares about what people think.

And then there’s his mother who’s exactly the same, only she’s more concerned about how Gerard’s fucked-up-edness will affect Mikey and whether or not it’s genetic. _The woman has plans for grandkids, Doctor._

Gerard rolls his eyes and squirms a little in the plush leather waiting chair. He picks at the embellished brass buttons, working on the second button from the end for the third week in a row. He’s trying to see how long it’ll take before—

A soft thump echoes through the waiting room and Gerard lifts his head.

_Thump._

His eyes scan the small room, fingers poised over the button.

_Thump._

A small, red bouncy ball rolls into the waiting room, coming to rest at the tip of Gerard’s shoe. He nudges it, lightly, and it rolls a few feet, then stops a few inches short of the door frame it came from.

_“You’re just encouraging him!”_

_“Don, honey, settle…”_

Gerard hears a sigh and then the shuffle of feet.

The clock reads 2:36. Only nine more minutes.

Fingers still poised over the button, Gerard looks up through his messy black fringe to see a mirrored expression; this guy’s about the same age as Gerard, brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect eyebrows, pouty lips, and a cute nose.

_He’d look great in a skirt._

The guy rights himself, bouncy ball grasped between all five fingers of his right hand. Gerard just kind of stares because he’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be the only kid here for another thirty…thirty-eight minutes. The other kid takes a hesitant glance down both ends of the corridor before taking an even more hesitant step inside, closer to Gerard. “Hi.”

Out of six other options—a couch big enough to fit three, a chair, and a bean bag chair—this guy chooses to sit next to Gerard on the loveseat that faces the door to the hallway.

“What are you in for?”

Gerard _knew_ there was a reason he calls this the Detainment Room…

The guy’s head is haloed by a poster: “Signs and Symptoms of Manic Depressive Disorder.”

“Oh, right I shouldn’t ask that…”

His voice is a lot deeper than Gerard expects; it’s a sharp contrast to his almost feminine features. It’s also sort of stuffy sounding, nasally, like maybe he’s congested or something.

Gerard can hear the muffled version of Dr. Linda’s “soothing tone” through the wall.

“My name’s Frank.”

Gerard turns his head, sees an outstretched hand. He slowly turns the rest of his torso and takes it with his right hand, slow, like maybe Frank’s the crazy one.

“Gerard,” he says and releases the grip. “And I’ll tell you if you tell me.” He bites at his lower lip because, really, what does he have to lose?

Frank giggles, high and airy, complementing his features and contrasting his voice. “I asked first!” he says, “But I guess I can go.”

Frank sniffs, wipes his nose with the back of his hand like he’s a child and not an almost-adult. Gerard keeps staring, painting across his features with eyeliner, mascara, blush, lipstick…When Frank talks, Gerard’s eyes cut back up.

“I’m actually just sick,” he giggles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Like paper. Like leaves. “Linda’s my mom. She told me to stay in reception but I was bored. Like seriously,” Frank plugs his nose, “’ _Doctor Iero’s office, please hold. Doctor Iero’s office, how may I help you?’_ ” Frank releases his nose and giggles. “If I hear that one more goddamn time I’ll die.”

Aside from being a touch melodramatic, Gerard finds Frank to be alright. Funny, even. Maybe.

“I like to wear skirts.”

A door opens and Gerard hears three sets of feet patter down the hall.

“Gerar— _Frank Anthony!_ ” Both boys look up. Gerard looks from Frank to Dr. Linda and back again, noting the blush that blossoms across Frank’s cheeks as he hunches down. “What are you—go back to the lobby. You are spreading germs.” Frank’s mouth gapes open like maybe he disagrees but then Dr. Linda uses The Look. Frank sighs, but stands up, shooting Gerard a look he can’t quite decipher before he shuffles past all of the adults and down the hall that he came from, releasing and catching the bouncy ball every few steps on his journey. “I’m sorry about that. He didn’t bother you or make you uncomfortable, did he?”

Gerard shakes his head, looking at the “Have you hugged your child today?” poster by the door rather than her, or, even worse, his parents. He doesn’t like to see their unmasked, matching disappointed faces.

“Well,” she says, clasping her hands together. “How’d you like to get started then?”

He really wouldn’t, because there’s nothing wrong with him, but he stands and follows her down the hall anyway as his parents replace him on the loveseat.

*

Gerard could hear the intermittent thumps of Frank’s bouncy ball the entire time he was in there with Dr. Linda. She’d said that Gerard is perfect the way he is and that he’s right; he doesn’t need “fixing.”

Gerard decides that he likes her.

He doesn’t speak to Frank on his way out.

*

The same time next week Gerard sits in the same spot doing the same thing. The brass button has gotten considerably looser, but there’s still no way it’s coming off for a while. He’ll persevere though; he’s got nothing better to do.

A soft rap to the door frame sounds and Gerard’s eyes snap up. He’s still not used to his hair not being in his eyes, so looking directly at this visitor, rather than through long strands of greasy hair, startles him a bit.

It’s Frank.

 _“But at school?!”_ Don’s voice is shrill, like always, and loud through the walls.

“Back again, I see,” Frank muses. His voice is still deep, only not as nasally as before because his sinuses seem clearer. His face also looks thinner, and his cheeks have a bit more color. “Still wearing your mom’s dresses?”

His tone doesn’t sound biting, but Gerard gets enough shit from assholes at school to know not to trust tones. Whatever, it’s not like he cares.

“They’re skirts,” he says. “And they’re mine.”

“Ah,” Frank hums, sitting down next to Gerard. His eyes are honest. “My mistake.”

Gerard keeps working on the button.

It’s silent for a while, or nearly silent with the low buzz of Dr. Linda’s voice through the wall, the clicking sounds of Gerard trying to get the button loose, and the quiet swish of Frank’s feet grazing the ground as he swings his feet.

“I used to let my cousin, Angie, put makeup on me.”

Gerard looks over at Frank, shocked again to see Frank and not Frank and fringe.

Frank shrugs. “And sometimes I try on my mom’s shoes,” he says quietly.

It’s silent again for a few moments.

The clock reads 2:44.

“She’s going to come get me in one minute. I’d leave now if I were you.”

Frank glances at the clock, stands and heads to the door. He stops, turns back toward Gerard, waves, and then shuffles quickly down the hall. Gerard thinks Frank might’ve been blushing. Gerard decides he likes Frank, too.

*

_Thump._

When Gerard hears it this time he fights a smile. Last week Frank wasn’t there. Neither was the button.

Gerard’s been working on the button behind the empty space now, the one closet to the edge. A light knock and Gerard looks up. He tries not to smile and fails. Frank smiles back, though, so Gerard counts it as a win. This time Gerard finds the courage to speak first.

“You weren’t here last week.”

The corner of Frank’s pouty lips lifts into a smirk. “Yeah,” he says. Gerard watches blush make a slow crawl up his neck and settle in his cheeks. “I couldn’t get my mom to bring me.”

“Aren’t you missing school too?” Gerard is curious, so what. And also Gerard gets to miss gym.

Frank sits next to Gerard smiling sheepishly. “Yep,” he says. He takes the red ball from his pocket and launches it at the floor a few feet in front of the wall he faces. He catches it. “But I’m generally pretty sick all the time so I have this deal with the school so I can still graduate on time.” He bounces it again and catches it. “Plus, I mean, Mom’s a D.O., so I have all the doctor’s notes I could ever need.”

Gerard nods. “My counselor at school recommended this instead of gym,” he counters. “Because of the whole skirt thing. And makeup. And hair.”

“You wore a skirt to school?” Frank’s tone is calm and it’s sort of soothing, just like Dr. Linda’s.

“Yeah, week before last. Dad made me cut off all my hair after the school called.” Gerard reaches up with his right hand to brush away the tickling phantom strands from his forehead.

“Oh,” Frank says.

Gerard looks at his hands.

“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Gerard looks at Frank’s hands. One is gripping the bouncy ball tightly and the other is only a few inches from Gerard’s thigh. Gerard goes back to focusing on the button behind the missing button. He doesn’t think about how his own hands are sweaty and how his fingers slide from the button.

At 2:44 Frank stands and waves, then leaves. Gerard sees blush on Frank’s neck over the white collar of his shirt. He smiles and lets his fingers slip around on the embellishment.

*

The next week, things aren’t as good for Gerard. He’d stopped taking his meds and had gone to school in a skirt again. This time he was wearing makeup too.

Gerard follows his parents and Mikey this time too, into the office building and then take the elevator six floors up to the very top. They sign in with Sheryl at the front desk and wait in the lobby before a weeping girl comes down the hall with her mother and then they’re ushered into Dr. Linda’s office.

“Afternoon, Ways. How is everyone?” Gerard likes Linda’s voice. It’s sort of deep for a woman and a little raspy. He thinks she could have been a blues singer in another life.

Mikey, surprisingly, is the first to respond. “Gerard is fine,” he says. He sounds sort of exasperated. “I don’t know why we have to be here.” Gerard uses his eyebrows to communicate to his brother that Dr. Linda isn’t the bad guy here. Mikey’s shoulders relax the slightest bit. “There’s nothing wrong with him.” Mikey slumps down in his chair, all gangly limbs tangled together as he crosses his arms across his chest, sulking like any other fourteen year old would be doing in the same situation.

_Thump._

“See, Don?” Donna intones.

“It’s not right, it isn’t nat—“

Gerard stands up and lets himself out. It’s easier to listen through a layer of plaster and wood and whatever the fuck walls are composed of. When he gets to the Detainment Room, Gerard is relieved to find Frank already sitting in the loveseat as opposed to surprised. The bouncy ball rolls back toward Frank’s feet but he doesn’t bend to pick it up. Instead he’s watching Gerard watch him from the doorway.

“You’re breaching confidentiality,” Gerard says, slumping down next to him on the loveseat. “I know you can hear everything.”

Now two embellishments are missing. Gerard works on the third one, closer to him instead of over the edge of the arm rest, and he can feel Frank’s eyes on him.

“I’m sorry,” Frank says.

Gerard’s fingers work faster over the button. “Why? _You_ didn’t do anything. Nothing is _your_ fault. _You’re_ not corrupting your brother or disgracing the family or losing your father clients or a f-fucking freak that dresses like a girl!” Gerard didn’t even notice his voice getting progressively louder until after he stops.

It’s too silent. It feels like nobody is breathing.

Except maybe Sheryl in reception because he hears the phone ring and then the low murmur of “ _Doctor Iero’s office, how may I help you?_ ” even though it’s muffled.

“I don’t think you’re a freak.”

Gerard feels a gentle pressure, warm and solid on his hand. He hears the door to Dr. Linda’s office open and from the pattern of the gait on the wood flooring he can tell it’s just Mikey.

“Um,” Mikey says, eyes immediately trained to their hands. Gerard yanks his hand back. “Hi. Frank? Your mom said to go back to reception?”

Frank huffs some kind of noise. Frustrated, maybe. He reaches over, puts his hand over Gerard’s and then scurries back up front.

“You okay, Gee?”

Gerard stays still for a few seconds. Maybe a minute.

“Not really, Mikes.”

Mikey crosses his lanky arms and leans against the doorframe, his sharp hipbones jutting against the tight band tee he’s wearing. Smashing Pumpkins.

“He’s right, you know.” Mikey’s voice isn’t like Frank’s. It’s much higher and a little more nasal. Mikey pushes his glasses up a tiny bit even though they still sit on the end of his nose. “You’re not a freak.” Gerard shrugs, dropping his hands into his lap. He lets his head hang between his shoulders because he doesn’t have to hide how bad it hurts from Mikey. “’Kay, well I’m gonna go back in there,” he hears Mikey say. There’s a pause. And then, “Love you, Gee.”

Moments later he hears the hum of Mikey’s voice through the wall countered by Dr. Linda’s.

The clock reads 2:42.

Gerard slumps forward and sees the bouncy ball that Frank always has against the leg of loveseat. He glances at the door and then leans over to pick it up. It’s solid and cool between his fingers.

*

The next week is much better. Gerard starts his meds again because Dr. Linda explained that he still needs them, even when he feels okay for more than a few days straight, it’s not his fault, it’s just how his body was made. He gets serious déjà vu when he’s called into the principal’s office once again and then sent to the counselor and then his mother is there to pick him up. She’s frowning. The lines look deeper. The car ride to Dr. Linda’s office is silent. Gerard picks at the fringe of his skirt. His mother isn’t speaking but she looks flustered—like she left the shop in a hurry and is in just as much of a hurry to get back.

They get there early; it’s only 2:07.

“Do you just want attention?” Donna asks. Her hands are tight on the steering wheel. Gerard is glad she cut the engine because she doesn’t notice that the pointed toe of her heel is pressing on the accelerator. Gerard messes with his skirt again, refusing to look up and meet her eyes. He already knows what he’ll see—disappointment, confusion, maybe even anger. “Do you?” Her voice is quiet.

“Mom, no, it’s—it’s not like that. I don’t…” Gerard presses his hands to his closed eyes. “I don’t know why I like to. But I’m not just doing it. It makes me feel—I feel good, Mom.” Gerard feels Donna’s eyes on him. He looks at her. Her brows are furrowed and her eyes scan his face like she’s looking for answers. Like she’s looking for truth and if she sees anything else, so help her God…He thinks she might’ve found what she needs because then she nods and releases her tight grip on the steering wheel.

“Okay,” she says. She presses her palms to her eyes and Gerard doesn’t smile.

Inside, Sheryl signs them in and tells Donna to go on back and Gerard to go to the “Reflection Room.”

When Gerard gets to the Detainment Room he sort of stops short in the doorway. All of the buttons are missing from the left side of the chair—the ones that Gerard has been obsessively trying to remove for weeks. He sits down in his spot anyway. In the opposite corner of the loveseat, Frank’s bouncy ball is tucked safely in front of a tightly folded square of paper. Gerard picks it up. It has a lowercase ‘g’ in the middle.

He opens it:

_My mom is getting suspicious. I’m only sick on Tuesdays.  
xo F_

_P.S. You’re perfect the way you are._

Gerard smiles and folds the note back up, then tucks it into the waistband of his skirt. Gerard rolls the bouncy ball between his fingers and then throws it at the wall like he’s seen Frank do. It hits the floor, then the wall, and then flies through the air back toward him. He misses, because, really, he’s not known for his hand-eye coordination skills. It thumps to the loveseat then ricochets off and rolls toward the bean bag chair in the far corner.

Gerard slowly stands and makes his way over there, careful to keep his skirt covering his ass as he bends at the knees to grab the ball.

He goes back to his spot, sits down, and runs his fingers over the indentations of the missing buttons. He smiles softly to himself.

Before he realizes, Dr. Linda is standing in the doorway and requesting his presence. Gerard follows her into her office and sits down next to his mother on the love seat across from Dr. Linda’s chair.

Her legs are crossed tightly, her ankles drawn together because she’s wearing a tight, black pencil skirt. Gerard likes how it widens her hips, accentuates her thighs, and makes her legs look a mile long.

“Gerard?”

He blinks and looks up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Dr. Linda gives him that gently, patient look so Gerard doesn’t feel guilty. “What were you thinking?” she asks. The way she says it sounds a lot like Frank.

Maybe Gerard misses him a little.

“I was thinking that that skirt looks nice on you,” he says honestly.

“Well, thank you,” she says. Gerard really likes her voice. Maybe she was a gypsy in a past life too—grasping palms to read and telling fortunes with incense burning all around. “But I need you to focus.”

Gerard meets her eyes and nods. “Sorry.”

“Last week we talked about maybe upping your dosage on the depression meds. Are you still opposed to that?”

Gerard kind of shrugs. “I dunno, I feel okay. Plus it feels better now.”

“Well, that’s very good, Gerard.” Dr. Linda smiles and her eyes crinkle in the corners. “But can I ask you a question?”

“You just did…” Gerard says, cracking a smile.

Linda chuckles. “Is it because you’re wearing the female clothing today?”

Gerard’s smile slowly vanishes. This is the first time she’s ever brought up the “clothing issue,” as Donna calls it, to his face. Usually, Gerard gets the secondhand version through the thin walls. He only talks to Dr. Iero about the depression—how he’s doing on a day-to-day basis, sometimes a little about his history, snippets of his childhood, his favorite things to do, his plans for the future now that he has some…Gerard’s eyes drop to his hands.

“I know that it isn’t normal, or whatever…” he says, slowly, preparing to defend himself. “But I’m not—I just like to wear them. Skirts make me happy.”

“But you’re a _boy_ , Gerard,” Donna points out. “We can’t have you going places dressed this way.”

Gerard grits his teeth. “When are you going to pick a side, Ma?” he snaps, looking at her tired face. Then he looks back down at his hands. Gerard is suddenly grateful that Dr. Linda isn’t the type of shrink to scribble notes during his sessions.

“I could say the same to you,” Donna retaliates.

“Oh, my _god_!” Gerard huffs, throwing his hands into the air. “That is so not even an issue! I _know_ that I’m male. I _like_ being male. I also _like_ wearing skirts. And dresses and makeup and stockings and heels and jewelry. But that doesn’t mean that I think I’m a girl. Or even want to be one. Jesus Christ.” He slumps down in his seat, suddenly exhausted.

“But people don’t _think_ —“

“I don’t give a fuck what people think, Ma,” Gerard says. “And I wish you and Dad didn’t either.” Gerard chances a glance at Dr. Linda and sees The Look. “Sorry for my language,” he grumbles.

Dr. Linda banishes him to the “Reflection Room.” Gerard reflects.

*

_Thump._

The clock reads 2:32. Gerard smiles.

_“It’s not that, Donald. He does not have a disorder.”_

The bouncy ball rolls right to the tip of Gerard’s sneaker. He bends down and picks it up. Frank appears in the doorway. Gerard holds the bouncy ball up with a smile. Frank blushes, cuts his eyes down and takes a seat next to Gerard. His eyes flash up at Gerard’s and he holds his hand out. Gerard puts the ball in it. “You’re wearing eyeliner today,” he points out.

“Yeah, that didn’t help me convince Mom I was sick.” Frank looks at the ball in his hand before he throws it at the wall— _thump_ —and catches it. Gerard laughs, his honking nervous one, and Frank meets his eyes. He beams, then shifts and clears his throat. “You look nice today, Gerard,” Frank says.

Gerard blushes. “Thanks…” He’d really gone all out today—a black dress complete with the works: polish, makeup, stockings, a _garter belt_ with his cigarettes tucked inside. Even a hair clip that Mikey’d insisted makes him look _sophisticated_. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“ _Gerard is very much aware that he’s male. From what I’ve learned and observed, he isn’t doing this for attention. He’s not doing it to spite either of you.”_

“I don’t think so,” Frank says. Gerard watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I think you look beautiful, actually.”

Gerard snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well it feels like too much. I don’t usually go this far. This time I was just trying to prove a point.”

“ _He’s not doing it to prove a point. It’s just something that makes him feel good.”_

Frank snorts upon hearing that. “I beg to differ,” he says quietly.

Gerard flutters a hand. “No, no. She’s right. Today I had to give a presentation in psychology. Over the repression of sexuality and expression in society.”

“Oh?” Frank offers.

“I chose gender identity within transsexuals. Which is pretty ironic consider all things, but I figured I really didn’t have anything to lose. I know I’m male, I know I like wearing female clothing occasionally, and I know it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks as long as I’m happy.”

The clock reads 2:44.

“You should probably go back up front…” Gerard says, biting his lip.

“Oh,” Frank says, looking at the clock and then back to Gerard. “Damn.”

When Frank gets to the door he turns back, biting his lip. As if convincing himself he should just do it, Frank darts back inside the room, cups his hands around Gerard’s face, middle fingers snug in the hollow behind his ears, and presses their lips together. It’s quick, sweet. Perfect. Frank stands and jogs back to the doorway, turning back to do that shy looking wave thing, where he ducks his head and blushes, before he disappears down the hallway.

“ _He’s not harming himself and he’s not hurting anyone else. I’d say this is healthy and relatively safe compared to other coping mechanisms and addictions I’ve seen.”_

*

The week after that, Gerard has decidedly made a breakthrough. Or, well, made progress at the least. He wore a skirt to school for the rest of the week and refused to go to the counselor’s office when his teachers made the “suggestion.” He didn’t get shoved, beat up, or spit on. He was largely ignored—no different than it was before he’d ever shown up in a skirt. Nobody even really commented on it, and the two or three people that did weren’t even rude about it. One girl asked him where he got them— _“Thrift store,” he says, looking down. “They’re pretty cheap and sometimes they have awesome patterns.” The girl smiles at him, a nice, genuine smile. “Cool,” she says._ He’d had no idea that it was that easy to just go on about his business, just by refusing to go to the school counselor.

“ _Gerard is perfectly fine with himself—relatively mentally healthy now that he’s on the depression meds.”_

The Detainment Room is void of Frank upon Gerard’s arrival. But there’s the bouncy ball and another note tucked in the crease of the loveseat cushion where’d he’d normally come in and sit next to Gerard. He leans over, snatches it and quickly unfolds it:  
 _  
g,  
made you something. look under the beanbag chair.  
xo F_

_P.S. I’d really like it if you gave me a call sometime. :)_

Gerard flips it over, and reads the seven digits over and over, committing them to memory before he tucks it into the waistband of his skirt. He stands up sort of fast, fights off a head rush and hurries over to the far corner, skirt ruffling behind him. He drops to his knees and shoves the beanbag chair, flipping it to rest on its opposite side, and gasps at what he sees. He picks it up, feeling himself smiling like an idiot and not caring the tiniest bit.

It’s a belt—dark, black leather, a little worn, and pressed every few centimeters is one of the missing brass buttons from the loveseat. It definitely looks homemade, like Frank placed each button and glued it down with his own hands, maybe with his brows furrowed and his tongue poking out of his lips in concentration. Nobody has ever made Gerard something like this before. It’s perfect.

_“However, Mr. and Mrs. Way, I do recommend that you two reevaluate certain aspects of your marriage—specifically each of your views on parenting. Gerard’s not the one that needs fixing; it’s you two.”_

Gerard cinches it around his waist and goes to sit back down in the loveseat. He runs his fingers over the brass buttons and thinks about Frank.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank knocks, just to be sure, and enters after listening for a quiet, “Come in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by: [s0ckpupp3t](http://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ckpupp3t/pseuds/s0ckpupp3t)

Frank keeps his phone in his pocket rather than in his locker. It’s a touch difficult to pull from his scratchy school trousers unnoticed, but he manages to do so without too much issue or calling attention to himself. The screen’s light brightly illuminates the underside of his desk before he fumbles to adjust the settings and it gradually fades to a dull glow. Frank thumbs over to his messages, only slightly (okay, very much so) disappointed that the only new message is one from his mother saying that he had better not plan on going anywhere after school because he is very much so grounded. He tucks his phone back into his pocket.

He sighs and looks back at the board, one of the only chalk ones left in the school what with all of the technological upgrades _(why couldn’t they upgrade the nuns, eh?)_ , and goes back to copying the notes on…differential equations or something. He’ll read back over them later, or maybe get Dewees to help him out on the assignment. Sometimes Frank regrets taking Calculus instead of having a blow-off senior year like everyone else, but at least it’s his last class of the day.

The bell rings and nobody moves a muscle until Sister Margot dismisses them. She’s actually pretty cool, as far as nuns go, and one of the youngest, but the students still give her just as much respect as the ones that are more dust than flesh anyway. Catholic school is weird like that.

Frank tucks his notebook underneath his arm and ducks out of the classroom into the horde of students. They sort of remind him of sheep with the way they move in masses, following one another around obstacles and whatnot. Once he gets to his locker he stops, taking a moment to giggle as a freshman nearly runs into him, and then opens his locker, disrupting the general flow of traffic. Running his fingers over the titles of his textbooks, Frank pulls his English one from the neat row and places it in his backpack beside the Calc homework set.

The books are heavy, jostling Frank’s innards against his bones as he walks through the sheeple and out into the blinding afternoon sun. Frank would like to think that he doesn’t blend in with the rest of the khaki pantsed and blazered boys here, but he does. Only he’s smaller, far from the tall stocky breed of guys he has to push his way through to clear himself to the sidewalk.

Frank loathes public transportation almost enough to walk, but he likes to be able to (mostly) breathe so he chooses to grit his teeth and ride the two different buses to his mom’s office without stopping at the music store like he’d been planning to because he really is a good kid. Generally, anyway.

There is a man on Frank’s left, smelling like the most unpleasant mixture of body odor and piss. His arthritic hands curl around a pole for stability as the bus rolls and jostles over bumps and potholes. The old guy mutters to himself. Frank stands.

“Would you like to sit here?” he asks.

The old man hurries to take Frank’s seat, and looks up at Frank with furrowed brows and confused eyes. Frank doesn’t expect thanks, so he just takes the man’s place at the support pole. He offers him a gentle smile and relaxes against the pole for the next few blocks. The bus lets him out half a block from a stretch of buildings that don’t quite fit the surroundings. The beginnings of a gated community are to the east and there’s a park across the street on the block to the west. Half of the block is consumed by the health complex’s parking garage, followed by the health plex itself, and then a few seedy apartment buildings. Frank doesn’t understand how zoning makes the combination possible, but hey, that’s Jersey.

The small health plex rises out from the others—the sun reflects from the steel and glass to radiate a few more degrees of heat into the cool spring air. It still looks shiny and new, even though the appeal has long since worn away for Frank. He enters, shuffles to the elevator, presses the ‘6,’ and closes his eyes as he’s taken up flight after flight. The ding sounds, followed by the whooshing of the elevator, and Frank steps onto the shiny tile of the lobby.

The building really was cool, compared to his mom’s old office, and much more spacious. The old place was like, straight out of the seventies with wood paneling and tacky flowered wallpaper. Sort of weird, but Frank actually misses it. At least it had some character compared to the sterility of this place.

He makes it to the lobby, makes a little questioning gestures to Sheryl, asking if mom’s with a patient, before he heads on back. He pauses, his shoes scuffing against the polished wood flooring, and looks into the “Reflection Room” for any sign of Gerard being there. There’s no Gerard, but the note he left is gone and the beanbag chair looks askew. Frank steps in and retrieves the bouncy ball from the corner of the loveseat. He knocks it from his palm to the inner crease of his elbow and back into his palm as he walks to his mother’s personal office, a bit of a spring in his step.

Frank knocks, just to be sure, and enters after listening for a quiet, “Come in.”

Linda is at her desk, looking down at a stack of papers through the frameless glasses perched on the end of her nose. Her hair is pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck, revealing the gray streaks at her temples. She looks tired. Frank feels a rush of sympathy for his mother.

Frank clears his throat and Linda finally looks up from her work. “Frank,” she says. “Sit down, please.”

Refraining from rolling his eyes, but just barely, Frank humors her and quietly says, “I’m not a patient, Ma.” Linda just gives him The Look.

“You might not be a patient, but I know there are lots of things you aren’t telling me,” she says. Frank looks down at the bouncy ball clutched in his hand. “I cleared my last two appointments, so I’ve got all afternoon and evening.” And she’s using her ‘mom’ tone, not the ‘Dr. Linda’ one Frank’s gotten so used to. It sort of takes him by surprise.

So of course that pretty much gets him to spill.

“Well, you already know that I’m…gay,” Frank says. And really, it’s not that he’s embarrassed or ashamed or anything. His face always turns red when he’s nervous. He looks up to see his mother nod. “Um,” he says, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “There’s this guy—”

“Gerard,” Linda fills in, cutting him off effectively. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the goofy grins and the fact that you only seem to want to come with me to work on the one day a week he has an appointment. I’m not stupid, Frank.”

Frank reveals a tiny, incredibly guilty smile.

“And another thing! I know it was you that tore apart that chair,” she says, pointing a finger. Frank loses eye contact, and hunches in on himself. Maybe if he looks innocently guilty, it will soften the blow. “And not only that, but you stole one of my good belts and gave it to him!”

“Ma, not it’s like—he was always picking at the ones on the chair, so I just,” Frank explains, then cringes because he’s totally throwing himself under the bus. “Wanted to make him something where he’d have that comfort all the time. I mean he’d always pick more intently when his dad was—”

“That right there is why you are grounded, young man. Do you know how much trouble I could get into if he were to go to my boss about that?” Linda presses her hands to her eyes and then drops them, gaze intent on Frank. “I’m not supposed to bring you here during work hours, and you know it, yet I do because you’re always sick and you do that face and say you don’t want to be alone. But then you go and betray my trust like that, Frank.”

Frank didn’t really think it was possible, but he slumps even farther in his chair as the guilt explodes into shame. He stays silent.

“Is there anything else you should tell me?” she asks after an exasperated sigh.

Frank thinks for a moment, bites his lip, and pretty much resigns himself to a lifelong grounding. “I gave him my number…”

“ _Frank_! He is my _patient_ ,” Linda hisses.

“I _know_ , but—“

“This is jeopardizing his—No, you know what?” She rubs at her temple and closes her eyes again. “You had better text him and tell him that you two won’t be seeing or hearing from one another for quite some time.”

“But Mom—”

“No, Frank. When we get home you are giving me your phone. Do not expect to come to work with me ever again. If you’re that sick, I’ll take you to Alessandra’s next time. I’m sure she’d love to take care of you.”

“But _Mom_ —”

Linda silenced Frank with a sharp hand gesture. “I don’t want excuses or justifications. I am so _unbelievably_ disappointed. I want an apology and a promise to keep out of my patients’ lives, _after_ ,” she says, keeping Frank from cutting in with a quick one, “You’ve had time to think about who you’re hurting with this.” And then she goes back to her paperwork.

***  
Frank decides he’s pissed more so than upset. Sure, he’s guilty about the whole possibly getting his mom into trouble thing, but this isn’t sitting right in Frank’s chest…Because, really it’s not the first time Frank’s heard the whole “I’m disappointed” thing and he knows it won’t be the last. And it’s definitely not the first time he’s been grounded either. He’s _really_ not new to that. There’s a reason he’s in Catholic school. It’s just—

Why would she be upset if Frank was helping make Gerard happier?

In whatever way that may be. And yes, okay, maybe starting with a romantic relationship would be a bad-ish idea since they hadn’t even really established a friendship first. But then again, Frank isn’t really that type…Or, hadn’t previously been what with his grand total of one whole boyfriend (that lasted an entire week and was only a mild disaster) and half a girlfriend (that had turned out to be a pity thing.) So Frank really just intends to stick with what he knows. He thinks Gerard is beautiful, a bit eclectic, but enigmatic and ethereal…so like, sue him for being intensely attracted. He can’t help but want to just… _be_ with him. Gerard is the most interesting and amazing person Frank has ever come in contact with (because apparently fantasies don’t count) in all of his 18 years.

And really, Linda had said it herself—she’s seen all the goofy grins. If Frank makes Gerard happy, then what could be so wrong about it? Unless…Frank is somehow making Gerard unhappy. But Frank is positive that’s not it.

“Mom,” Frank starts quietly after a little while. “Why can’t I just be friends with him?” He widens his eyes, open and honest in the way that he hopes his mother will be in return.

Linda looks up, not amused. “Because, Frank,” she says. “He is my _patient_.” She holds his gaze for a few moments more, _Don’t bring it up again_ , looking more tired and worn out with each passing second.

Frank sighs, pointedly not rolling his eyes or protesting the way he wants to. Maybe that’ll lessen his sentence.

Eventually, Linda asks Frank to run a few things back and forth to Sheryl because he’s started getting restless and bouncing his ball of the floor and the walls and the ceiling and Linda “really needs to concentrate” or whatever. But since she’s the one that diagnosed his ADHD in the first place, Linda knows to give him tasks to keep him busy. Complicated ones. With _steps_.

Frank rolls his eyes and shuffle-skips down the corridor with an inter-departmental envelope clutched in his hand. There are all kinds of names scribbled on it so Frank figures that it’s an old one that they don’t need anymore, like they’re only passing notes this way because they don’t want Frank to read them. Whatever, he so doesn’t care.

“Sheryl,” Frank singsongs, coming around the corner into reception. “I have something for you!” He shakes the envelope, and seriously it only sounds like a sheet of paper.

Sheryl looks up from the files, blue eyes sparkling behind her black framed glasses after she pushes her strawberry blond curls from her face. “Oh, great,” she says, pokerfacing. “What did you make me this time, Frankie?” She rolls her chair back in front of her computer, logging into the records system.

“Why do you have to be so mean?” Frank says, clutching the manila envelope to his chest. “Are you saying you haven’t loved each and every one of my gifts like you said you did?” He feigns a hurt look and blinks his eyes at her.

“Just gimme,” she says, holding her hand out. Frank keeps it close to his chest. Sheryl sighs, exasperated but not annoyed just yet. “Oh, dear Frank, I am so very sorry to have offended you. I love everything you made,” she says in the sincerest monotone Frank has ever heard. “Please never stop making me papier-mâché swords and macaroni necklaces and bedazzled mugs.” She blinks. “Now give me the envelope.”

Frank snorts and puts it in her hand. “You have been absolved of your sins, my child.” A silent giggle rocks his shoulders as he remembers thinking once upon a time that he was destined to marry Sheryl, even though she’s totally like almost as old as his mom. Frank Iero is and always has been a charmer, ladies and gentlemen. He always has to make things for those subject to his wooing—it’s just the way it works.

Sheryl snaps him from his reverie with another sentence toned like nothing but the color gray. “Your mother asked me to make you clean up in here. Why don’t you find a broom or something, kid? Stay out of her hair so she can finish her paperwork and you two can get outta here at a decent hour.” Then the phone rings and she switches to her professional voice. “Dr. Iero’s office, how may I help you?” She waves a dismissal at him.

Frank giggles and disappears into storage.

*

Sweeping is generally really boring, so it’s only a matter of time before he gives up and instead tries to balance the broom tip on his palm as he walks the length of the reception area and the hallway leading back to the various rooms.

He’s still going at it when his phone vibrates in his pocket and it startles him enough that the broom clatters to the floor.

Frank digs his phone out, the scratchy material pressing against his thigh in the most uncomfortable of ways. Frank thumbs his way to his inbox, seeing the _1 New Message_ and feeling his face heat up as he reads:

 _hey F, it’s g… thx 4 the belt :)_

Frank’s heart flutters and his stomach drops and he blushes and there are butterflies and all that other cliché stuff. And then he has an intense four second debate with himself— _should I text back or call, no I’ll call, have some balls, Frank, I can do it, okay_ ¬—before he saves the number and calls.

It rings a few times and Frank gets _really_ fucking nervous (the _suspense_ , man!) because Gerard totally isn’t answering, _oh, my god, and_ —

“ _’Lo?_ ”

Frank barely hears it, the quiet, hesitant half-word that makes him want to simultaneously cry tears of joy and vomit from nerves. “H-hi, Gerard? Hey, it’s uh, Frank.” _Smooth, Iero._

He hears a high giggle. “ _Yeah, hi. Um._ ” It’s silent for a few beats and Frank’s stomach drops again. “So, I’m not very good at talking on the phone…”

Frank giggles. Because he’s totally no good at it either. “I don’t care,” Frank nearly shouts, feeling a little hysterical. “I’m just glad I get to hear your voice! I feel like it’s been too long.” He sighs into his phone. “Oh! So how do you like the belt? Did you actually wear it or did you like, throw it away as soon as you could?”

“ _Burned it, actually._ ” There are a few horrifying beats of silence—Frank’s all _god-damn-it-shit-motherfucker-bitch-ass-cunt-shit-fuck_ —until Gerard erupts into a fit of high giggles around, “ _Wow, just kidding. I really loved it_.” He sobers up. “ _I totally put it on as soon as I found it. Actually, I’m still wearing it..._ ” Frank hears Gerard break into a low voice, unashamed by the admission but maybe anxious for Frank’s reaction.

“Really?” Frank breathes.

And he really is getting way ahead of himself, but it’s dark and warm in the storage closet and Gerard has the most awesome raspy voice that Frank has ever heard so it really is kind of understandable that when he reaches down to do a bit of rearranging, he finds himself sort of aroused—a flash of pornographic images run through his head, followed by a slew of Gerard (his eyelashes the way he looks down, the slant of his lips when he smirks, the slope of his legs crossed in a skirt) and then a combination of both. His breath hitches and he totally feels like he just got socked in the gut.

“That’s pretty awesome,” he says breathlessly. And then maybe because he’s doing the nervous word-vomit thing or because he’s really just trying to distract himself, he starts off on this big long story about everyone he’s ever tried to woo. Even though Gerard, _Gerard_ , really doesn’t need to hear it because it’s merely a story of epic failure on Frank’s part, he just can’t seem to shut himself up. Plus Gerard is giving input every now and then and even laughing, plus he totally snorts at some point and Frank giggles really loudly.

 _Too_ loudly, actually, because then he hears footsteps and he starts freaking out so he mutters a “Shit, hold on” into the phone and shoves it into his pocket. Then, because Frank is just so motherfucking _nonchalant_ , he leans against the wall by the closet’s door, and folds his arms all awkwardly and waits for the door to open.

Luckily it’s just Sheryl.

The door opens and she looks around it and then sees him. Frank fidgets.

“What are you doing?” she asks slowly.

Frank shrugs, because _nonchalant as fuck_ should be his middle name instead of Anthony Thomas. He can’t help himself. “Nothing…”

“Why are you in the storage closet?” she asks, and then, “And I heard talking. Who were you talking to?”

Frank just blinks and then says, “Myself.”

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“Because you’re acting weird.”

Frank stays silent and blinks at her.

“Well,” she says. “Guess I’ll leave you to it.” She watches him for a bit and then closes the door. Frank hears the muffled, static version of Gerard’s squawky laugh.

*

When Frank gets home, he runs up to his room and shuts the door, hoping that maybe his mother is too tired to remember he’s supposed to be grounded. And she does, at least for a while, so Frank exchanges screen names with Gerard so that they’ll have some form of contact if/when Linda takes his phone.

Which turns out to be right after dinner.

She just holds her hand out, palm up, and gives Frank The Look. He mutters some things, but hands it over and slumps his shoulders so he can make an appropriately pitiful shuffle back up the stairs to his room. He hears his mom snort at him. Frank rolls his eyes and pointedly _doesn’t_ slam his door even though it might be more effective in convincing Linda that he’s pissed.

 _Whatever._

Frank flops down on his bed and grabs his laptop out from underneath it and signs onto his instant messaging.

 _Frnkr_ : grounded 4ever  
 _WrongWay_ : bcuz u made tht belt 4 me?  
 _Frnkr_ : don’t worry. totally worth it  
 _WrongWay_ : *blushes*  
 _Frnkr_ : ;)

*

Monday night Frank comes down with a cold, which he’s betting will either turn into bronchitis or pneumonia by the end of the week or (if he’s lucky) just a little bout of the flu within the next two days. Point is—he’s still sick on Tuesday which is sort of exactly what he’s hoping for.

 _And_. Somehow _everyone_ (like the _entire_ Iero family) is either busy or sick or out of town and Linda relents and brings Frank with her to work. Frank thinks that someone up there might actually be looking out for him, so he shoots up a general, “Thanks!” and crosses himself like a good Catholic boy. But then again, he really is sick and it really does suck to be out of bed and like upright because he feels like he’s drowning in snot and like someone’s punching him in the chest too. Linda schedules him an appointment to see Doctor Ahwn, who is conveniently located one floor down, even though she could prescribe the antibiotics she knows Frank will need.

The day is pretty much fuzzy—Frank knows what’s going on, but it’s as if he were watching through fogged over glass and his reactions are sort of in slow motion. He spends a lot of time just bundled in his blanket in the corner of reception, where Sheryl (“ _Sheryl, please do not let him leave. He has an appointment at one, but other than that, he’s not allowed to leave._ ”) makes a pinched, worried face between answering the phones. Frank just sips on his 40 oz. bottle of Gatorade, the blue kind, and watches the door, hoping for Gerard and pretending that he doesn’t want to die a little.

So then at two-whatever in the afternoon, when Gerard strolls in behind who Frank assumes is his father (if the wonky posture and the same _fucking face, whoa_ is any indication.) Frank feels like he might be having one of those weird fever-induced hallucinations.

Gerard looks up, blushing, all twitching hand movements, and then Frank figures out that Gerard is motioning for him to follow, and Frank sort of just stares after him. Because _for the love of all that is holy_ Gerard is wearing that really fluttery skirt and his legs look a mile long _and_ the belt. That. Frank. Made.

Sniffing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Frank looks over to see Sheryl staring at him. He can’t read her face, so he just mutters “Bathroom,” and scrambles down the hallway, hoping for the best.

Gerard is in the Reflection Room, conveniently (and not so conveniently) located next to Frank’s mom’s office, just opposite the bathroom. Plus it’s common knowledge that practically everything can be heard through the walls, or maybe it’s the vents, Frank doesn’t really know.

But what he does know is that Gerard is sitting there on the fucked up loveseat, on the side that’s missing all of the buttons, because _hey, there they are all around Gerard’s waist_ , just sort of looking all patient and perfect and flicking what looks to be paint from underneath his fingernails. And then he looks up, grinning like fucking new comic books at Christmas, and Frank realizes he’s still totally wearing his ratty blue blanket and feeling ten shades of shitty.

“You’re here,” Gerard points out, smiling so wide _Frank’s_ cheeks hurt.

Of course Frank’s cheeks and neck blush a furious tint of pink and he ducks his head because confidence or not, Gerard is still intimidatingly beautiful and Frank feels all small and inadequate in comparison. “Hi,” he breathes, stuffy and weak into the air. Frank tugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders and hesitates in the doorway.

Gerard quirks a brow and his crooked mouth puckers in concern. He scratches at his nose—a nervous habit as far as Frank can tell. And then it’s weird—like everything is clear, because it’s Gerard and he’s here in front of Frank, all otherworldly and too real at the same time. Frank’s chest aches, and he doesn’t think it’s because of the virus, or whatever.

“Why do I feel like it’s been forever?” Frank asks. Only it’s muffled by the blanket and half-stuck in his sinuses so it sounds more like something else, but Gerard doesn’t look confused so Frank doesn’t worry about it.

Gerard giggles, but says, “I’ve missed you too, Frankie,” in a tone that means more than the words themselves, like maybe he wants Frank too. Frank watches his face soften into a serious expression and then the long line of his arm as he offers out a hand, fluttering his fingers in a way that shouldn’t distract (and turn on) Frank as much as it does. “C’mere, why don’t you?”

Just like that it doesn’t feel strained anymore, doesn’t feel like Frank is another helpless victim of something unrequited. He burrows further into his blanket, hiding his blush, muffling his voice even more. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“Not all of us are delicate flowers.”

Frank knows he should be offended, and he would be if those words came from anyone else’s mouth, but this is _Gerard_ and there’s his fingers and his crooked grin and his stupid sexy skirt. Faking a pout and half-heartedly flipping him off in his mind, Frank flips the end of the blanket over his head, leaving only his eyes visible. He walks over and sits next to Gerard anyway, grabbing his hand through the blanket.

The corners of Gerard’s eyes wrinkle between the lift of his cheeks. “You’re sick,” Gerard helpfully points out. “Why are you here if you’re sick?”

Frank blushes again, and averts his eyes to the dusty floor. “I don’ like bein alode,” he says, because that’s really all he can manage even though he wants to say something like, _Haven’t you noticed we’re at a Health Complex where there are doctors aplenty?_ because he’s an asshole like that in his mind. Even to people he really, really likes. A lot. ( _God, Gerard is so perfect._ )

Gerard blinks and his lips fold in on themselves like he’s forcing himself not to violently “AWW!” with all of his might. But then he does anyway, flailing his hands like he can’t help it, before he pulls Frank to him.

Rolling his eyes, (only because he’s trying to maintain _some_ sense of dignity) Frank lets Gerard coo and tuck the blanket down around his shoulders to pet at Frank’s hair. Which feels _awesome_ so Frank doesn’t protest because Gerard feels warm and safe and comfortable. Plus this is the most non-familial physical contact he’s had in the history of ever, so he’s just going to count his blessings and snuggle a little closer into Gerard’s chest.

*

When Frank comes to, Gerard is gone and Linda is standing over him already halfway into a “I can’t trust you, can I?!” tirade. But then he’s doubled over and coughing, like serious chest-wracking ones, wheezing so hard his vision is going black at the edges and Frank’s thinking “Well, at least I got to see Gerard one last time before I die,” so he doesn’t really hear it.

His mom is all in his face after he finishes hacking up his lungs, looking worried and about ten years older than she should. And Frank really doesn’t want to keep hurting his mom all of the sudden.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he croaks, reaching to touch her face like the dying people do in movies. “Really, I am.”

“Cut the dramatics, Frankie,” Linda says, rubbing his hair. She sighs, deep and long-suffering. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

*

For three (long, horrible, brutal) weeks, Frank spends his time hawking seriously impressive loogies into tissues, blowing his nose, and wishing he would die. (And also wallowing in his own filth, calling his mom from the home phone to whine at her, and jerking off a _lot_ because he figured out that orgasms clear up his sinuses better than a hot bath by like a fucking mile.)

Turns out the common cold really _can_ turn into severe pneumonia in two days. But thankfully, it’s winding down into a simple respiratory infection, and that, Frank can deal with expertly. For the next few days (which his mom insists he take off even though he insists that he’s fine and he can totally handle it, when in reality he’s just going stir-crazy) Frank buckles down and finishes all the assignments between bouts of coughing and fending off concerned relatives. (Aunt Debbie makes the most awesome tomato and basil soup _ever_.)

So there’s that and the fact that his laptop was totally missing when he finally ventured back into the land of the breathing and conscious. At first he contemplated throwing a complete and total tantrum—because _holy fuck, really?_ —but then…his mom really does look exhausted and stressed and more than likely fed up with Frank. So he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he curls up with books and does his homework like a good boy, praying that maybe she’ll give it back if he does what she wants for a while.

It’s quiet and weird in the house when his mom’s gone, leaving him huddled in his ratty blue blanket that doesn’t smell like Gerard anymore, and seriously craving some social contact—especially now that all of his connections to the outside world have been confiscated. Frank is a prisoner. Linda is the asshole warden. Frank sighs and huddles deeper, bored out of his mind like he never thought was possible, so he spends the rest of the afternoon dozing and watching reruns of Next Generation and old cartoons.

The doorbell rings and Frank starts— _BUY NOW BUY NOW BUY NOW!_ the television is shrieking, bright bold letters against the background of a car lot—and wipes blearily at his sleep-crusted eyes and drool-crusted mouth before answering the door. He’s expecting Aunt Debbie again, or maybe cousin Angie, dropping off another vat of soup—only it’s his fro-headed friend, Ray Toro, twitching on his front porch instead.

“Frankie—man, shit you’re alive!” And he invites himself in under the pretense of hugging the shit out of Frank and practically braining them both when he steps on the blanket because of sheer hug-force. “I thought you were dead!”

“Almost but not quite, Torosaurus,” Frank says, voice only a gravelly rasp. He pets at Ray’s hair because he totally deserves a free pass for being sick. Ray doesn’t even swat at his hands.

“You haven’t been answering my texts! There’s been some serious shit going down—you know that—“ Ray is squawking along and Frank kind of lets him because he’s missed the guy, and plus Toro only has as many friends as Frank; he’s probably got three weeks’ worth of pent-up gossip, because no one else really tolerates it.

Frank kind of leads them back to the couch because being upright kind of really _sucks_ and listens to him wax poetic about some girl’s thighs that he saw at the comic store and then how this freshman transferred in and has really awesome scene hair and he’s been eating lunch with Toro and the band of misfits even though he is totally getting attention from that jock Wentz or whatever. Frank sort of stops listening and starts falling asleep.

*

His mom is pacing around the kitchen when Frank wakes up, phone glued to her ear as she curses in Italian at the oven. When she opens it and a cloud of black puffs into her face and she curses again, Frank can’t help but giggle. “Frankie! Come help please!”

He scurries off the couch, only swaying a little from dizziness, and takes the phone from his mom’s shoulder so she can swat at the burnt pan of whatever with her oven mitts. “Hello?” he says into the phone. It’s Grandma Lillian, surprisingly enough, and then he can’t manage to get away seeing as how she’s telling him all of these wicked old pneumonia remedies from back in her day that Frank is pretty sure can kill a person.

When he finally hangs up, like 45 minutes later, pizza has arrived and it’s sitting on the table in front of Linda.

“Raymond Toro was here when I got home,” she says, lifting the lid of the box open. The smell wafts up to Frank’s nose and he doesn’t make a food-gasm face. Not even for a second. Nope.

“Yeah, he was worried or whatever. You know, since I’ve been dead to the world and all.” Frank takes a slice and lets the steam waft over his face.

“Doesn’t he know you’re grounded?” his mom asks around a mouthful of pizza.

Frank folds his and takes a massive bite. “I’m sure you let him know.” And then just because he’s feeling particularly like a little shit, he sticks his tongue out, showing her chewed-up pizza bits.

She just does it back and then things feel kind of okay between them, their laughter ringing out through the kitchen.

*

Monday morning Frank is loaded down with every textbook possible and all of the homework he had to make up. So it kind of sucks that he gets there late and then one of the nuns yells about his shirt being partially untucked plus he has to lug all of his shit to English. And then to Religious Studies because his locker is way the fuck on the opposite side of the school near the cathedral.

By lunchtime Frank is practically keeled over dead because of the whole being upright thing that he’s had to do all day. He’s super grateful that it’s still warm enough to eat outside in the quad though, because then at least he can be horizontal and maybe get some sun.

He spots his meager group of friends fucking around in the far corner like always, only there’s someone new, and Frank tries not to feel jealous. “You fuckers already replaced me, huh?” he grins at his friends—Toro, Dewees, Cortez, and Bob—and then the new guy turns around to face him too.

“Oh, hey—you’re _Frank_.” The kid has a seriously unconcerned face, but Frank sees a spark of recognition in his eyes.

Frank doesn’t even try to contain himself. “You’re Gerard’s brother!” he hoots, tackling the scrawny kid into the grass with the kind of hug he usually reserves for Bob Bryar. He ignores Ray’s questioning and instead starts practically jumping with joy, which looks a little strange considering he’s still lying on the grass.

“Yeah, Mikey Way,” he says in a monotone that sounds nothing like Gerard’s expressive Jersey mumble. Whatever, Frank _totally doesn’t even care_. “Nice to uh, properly meet you, I guess.”

“Mikey fuckin’ Way, I could kiss you!” Frank scrambles up and takes a minute to catch his breath. “How’s Gerard? Is he okay? Fuck, I didn’t have any way to tell him Mom took my laptop and I had fucking _pneumonia_ forever, holy shit. Speak, Mikey!” Frank may or may not be shaking Mikey by his thin shoulders.

Mikey’s eyes are totally bugging behind his glasses. “He’s, uh,” he starts, cutting his eyes over to the group sitting and staring at them. “He could be better. I mean, it’s _Gerard._ ” Like that explains everything.

“Yeah,” Frank sighs. He totally spaces, just thinking of all the what-ifs in the world until Dewees comes up and sticks his tongue in Frank’s ear because he’s an asshole.

“Don’t get all moony, the dude’s brother doesn’t need to see that shit,” Dewees says as Frank flails all, _I totally wasn’t, you fuckface_ , in his head.

“How do you know each other?!” Ray shrieks, hair bobbing furiously.

Mikey kind of shrugs and is like,” “We had a three-way with your mom,” in a completely serious monotone.

Frank and the others are too busy dying laughing—seriously, Cortez looks like he might’ve pissed a little and Dewees has tears—to acknowledge Ray’s undignified squawking and “No, really, tell me!”

Mikey just grins, really only apparent because of the subtle lift in his mouth and the way his eyebrows are sitting, and accepts a fist bump from everyone whose mother didn’t get insulted. Ray merely sulks and glares in their direction.

Frank already loves Mikeyway. “I already love you, Mikeyway,” Frank says.

*

By the end of the day Frank has hand written the most sincere “I’m sorry, please forgive me so we can get married and have a million puppies” letter ever. Seriously, it’s filled with cheesy jokes and everything. He just hopes he sees Mikeyway before he has to catch the bus. And thank fuck he does, because he really _really_ misses Gerard and wants him to know that.

The thing is, Pete Wentz is totally standing there, leaning against one of the various brick columns, looking kind of douchey, and talking at Mikey who is scanning the parking lot with an ear bud in. Frank can hear the music ( _sounds like the Pumpkins_ ) as he approaches, because that shit is blasting.

“Pete Wentz,” Frank says, nodding politely even though he knows Pete more than likely has never seen him before. Pete nods back, no longer talking but baring his too big teeth in a smile that leaves Frank a little dizzy, even though he is _so_ not even interested. He faces Mikey, clearing his senses as Pete waves and then heads toward his group of friends. “So, hi, do you think you could give this to Gerard for me _please_?”

Mikey eyes the little square in Frank’s hand and takes it. “Sure, I guess.”

Frank hugs him, practically snapping the kid in half, but he can’t help it. “Thanks, Mikeyway. You’re the fuckin’ best.” And then he scurries away because his bus is totally leaving in like two seconds.

*

All things considered, Frank waits patiently until he and his mother are actually alone to broach the subject:

“Mikey goes to my school, Ma!” he blurts and then covers his mouth with his hands because he honestly isn’t sure if he wanted to say that or not. Because what if, like, she forbids them to be friends, or something stupid. _Fuck_ , he really should’ve thought this over a little more before he just—

“Gerard’s brother?” she asks, kind of nodding to herself. She signals and then slowly changes lanes, then glances at Frank’s face. “They’re very… _protective_ of one another.”

But she’s still not really _reacting_ and so Frank just kind of sits there, plus this is the first time she hasn’t had smoke coming out of her ears at the mention of Gerard and/or anything related.

“Which is why Don put him there, or so he says. Is he making friends alright?” she asks.

Frank is kind of weirded out. But whatever, he’ll take Mom over “Dr. Linda” any day. “Dude, Ma, yeah, he’s like _Mikeyway_ , ya know? You wouldn’t believe it—he’s like. Popular.”

Linda just kind of hums. “Did you talk to him?”

 _This could be a trick question_. “He was like, already friends with all of my friends. I didn’t even know it was him, and then like yeah…” he trails. He watches his mom’s head bob up and down a few times, like she’s listening, reflecting, stewing on it. It makes Frank nervous.

She doesn’t say anything even after they get to the restaurant. And is virtually silent when they meet Frank’s dad for dinner. (“ _Frank, why are you so twitchy?” “I’m not,” he replies, too fast and obvious and promptly dropping his fork onto the table and covering up the clatter with loud, nervous laughter._ ) After they get back home, Frank has resorted to kind of lurking in the shadows like a freak, waiting for a reaction, but whatever, he is _so_ a sneaky ninja.

Linda sighs and Frank ducks back around the corner because he is _stealthy_ , dammit. She’s sitting in the den in her favorite chair, reading a romance novel and sipping hot tea. Frank knows she’s probably taken something for a headache because she only drinks tea when she feels like her head’ll explode into tiny bits of soothing tones, reassurance, and “how do you feel about that?”s.

“Frank?” she says, clear and loud and totally looking where he’d been peeking around the corner. He scurries silently up the stairs to his room, hurriedly flopping onto his bed and whipping out his Calc book like the innocent little fucker he is.

*

The next morning is just like every other morning wherein Frank gets out of bed, jerks a quick one in the shower, and eats a granola bar on his way out of the door. The only difference is that his bus is actually on time and he doesn’t know what to do with all of this free time. Seriously, school doesn’t even start for another fifteen minutes.

He scans the front steps for his friends and comes up short, so he goes in for a quick piss and drops all of his shit in his locker. Then he like…doesn’t know what to do and it’s weird so he wanders back toward the quad where there’s only like two or three small groups of people and— _oh, hey, that’s Mikey._

Before he knows it, Frank is in a tangle of limbs with the kid and he has grass in his mouth. “Mikey! Hi,” Frank says, spitting out a few blades of grass. Mikey is sort of glaring at him and pulling at his own hair (fixing it, Frank guesses but can’t really tell because it already pretty much looked like a rat’s nest or a beehive or something equally epic) but then his face slowly splits into what Frank has learned is a smile.

Mikey yanks the ear bud out and says, “Is this like a… _thing_ for you, or am I just special?”

Frank yanks on a bit of hair beneath the arm of Mikey’s glasses. “Just you, Mikeyway. And maybe Dewees. Bob doesn’t let me anymore.”

Mikey smacks at Frank’s hands.

“Bob Bryar?” a voice asks and Frank flails.

It’s Pete Wentz, looking all intensely smiley and perfectly disheveled. Frank just kind of stares at him until Mikey shoves his bony elbow into Frank’s ribs. He wheezes for a second because _pneumonia, you fucker_ and then he kind of goes _oh right_ , “You know Bob?”

And then Pete beams (and Frank wonders how Mikey can resist that, like seriously) and is all, “Yeah, he volunteers at the same nursing home as me! They all call him Robert.” (Frank is _so_ giving him shit for that later.) His smile lessens in intensity and Frank finally feels like he can breathe. “But actually, I came over here to ask if you wanted to come with me to a concert Friday?” Pete’s staring directly into Mikey’s eyes and _Frank_ is nervous.

Mikey kind of shrugs, holding his arms around his middle with his pointy hips all cocked. “I guess,” he says noncommittally.

“Cool,” Pete breathes, beaming again. “Well, I’ll see you later. Bye, Frank.” And with a wave, he’s gone.

Frank blinks, and turns to face Mikey, who is totally blushing. “You’re blushing,” Frank points out. “Dude—Pete Wentz totally wants you.”

“Whatever,” Mikey mumbles. Then he reaches into his blazer pocket and hands Frank a wrinkled square of paper. “You totally want my brother.”

Frank’s eyes get kind of huge and he says, “You have no idea,” all seriously, because he really, _really_ does. Want Gerard, that is.

“Actually, I kind of do,” Mikey says, eyebrows furrowing. He scratches at the back of his head. “Turns out he totally wants you too.”

Frank holds the note carefully by the corners, marveling at the neat little cursive “f” in the center. “Really?” Frank squeaks.

Mikey rolls his eyes. “If I have to hear about the perfection of your eyebrows ever again I’m going to shoot you both in the face.”

*

Notes are kind of old school, now that Frank thinks about it, but he thinks he likes them more than texts or IMs because he has tangible proof, hidden underneath his Calc textbook as he’s doing his homework, that this isn’t one-sided or even all in Frank’s head.

He sighs, running his fingers over the edge while trying to figure whether what he’s looking at is an infinite limit. Just as he’s about to take it out to read for the eighty-seventh time today, a knock sounds and he flails for a second.

“Come in,” he says, face buried in his notebook.

Linda comes in, a thoughtful expression on her face, and stoops down, gathering Frank’s dirty blazer and slacks from the floor. She pauses, looking at Frank watching her from his bed, and then turns to face him. Frank’s stomach drops and he thinks _oh, shit, this is it, whatever it is, oh god_ and kind of sits there, frozen.

“Frank,” she says, finally stooping to get his tie and stupid white button-down shirt.

“I can get my own laundry. You don’t have to do that,” he offers. She just kind of blinks at him and sets his clothes down on the bed near his feet. Then she sits. “What’s up?”

She clears her throat. “Frank,” she says slowly, “I’ve been thinking.” And then she’s silently scanning Frank’s face and he knows she can tell exactly what’s going on in his head because he can’t _not_ bug his eyes when he has no idea what’s going on. It’s a simple pause, but Frank’s learned that these are just as lethal as her harsh, finite words. But he waits, suspended in the awkward, pregnant silence until she speaks again. Something’s shifted in her eyes and Frank is scared again. “Tell me why you like Gerard, please.”

It’s a gentle request and a harsh demand all in the same breath and there’s no way to avoid this—like this will determine his fate, his future. He’s not ashamed though, he could never be ashamed because it’s _Gerard_ , so he just smiles softly to himself, running his fingers subtly over the letter like it’s offering additional support.

“He’s just…” Frank begins, then trails because it’s not a ‘just.’ There’s too much; too many reasons, visuals, words, smiles, laughs flying through Frank’s mind, so fast and it’s so much that he’s overwhelmed. “He is the most unique, thoughtful…” And he stops again because this doesn’t feel right. That’s not where he’s going because he’s _so much_ more than just simple adjectives. “Gerard really is perfect, Ma. Maybe not to anyone else, but he is to me.”

There it is, out in the open. Feeling vulnerable and accomplished, and maybe even a little relieved, all at the same time, Frank sighs out a breath and stops fighting his goofy little grin.

“Okay,” she says, standing to leave.

“Wait, no, Mom—” Frank blurts, and Linda pauses. “What is it?” he asks. “Like—why?”

She turns back slowly, and bites her lip. “I just wonder if I’m doing the right thing…” she says. Linda wraps her arms around herself, grabbing her elbows with her opposite hands.

Frank barely refrains from snorting because _hello, miserable here, just let me talk to the guy, please_. Somehow he holds it in, and instead asks, “What do you mean?”

She sighs, dropping her arms to rest at her sides. “You really like him? Like this isn’t just some passing… _thing_ , or a little crush that you’ll get over?”

Frank does snort then. Because, “Mom, it’s been how long since I’ve met him? Two months at least. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve kind of been doing anything I can just to be around him or keep contact, whatever.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I swear this isn’t just some…thing…”

Linda still looks like she doesn’t quite believe him. Her mouth is pursed in that “Convince me” way it gets when Frank has to be all, “No, Mom, I really am sick” or “No, Mom, I didn’t break your favorite mug seeing if I can juggle” or “Seriously, Mom, it tastes great after you pick off the burnt parts.”

“You can name all of the people I’ve ever liked and pretty much how long I liked them. Shouldn’t that count for something? None of them were less than a year,” he says. He’d be tugging on his mom’s sleeve if she were closer. “Even Sheryl.”

That breaks her—she cracks a smile and then snorts. Like she’s surprised that she could make such a noise, she quickly covers her mouth, eyes wide, and then erupts into the loud, high-pitched giggles that Frank inherited. And then it’s an echo—Frank laughs just as hard as his mother.

“Okay, okay,” she says, wiping the corners of her eyes. “Fine.” Linda heaves a deep sobering sigh and then pulls Frank’s head to her chest to press a kiss to the top of his head.

They sit in silence for a while, Frank pulling Linda to sit back down on his bed. Then Frank clears his throat and kind of awkwardly goes, “So does this mean I get my stuff back?”

Linda just kind of rolls her eyes. “Sure,” she says, and then cuts off Frank’s half-thought victory screech. “But, not until I speak with Gerard first…This is going to be a big decision for him too.” She kind of furrows her brows. “I don’t know what’s—if he doesn’t want to change psychiatrists, Frank, you can’t…be upset. It’s his choice and if he wants to stay with me, then I can’t let you see him.”

Frank looks down at the note on his bed.

“If he doesn’t choose to switch, Frank…” she says, lifting Frank’s chin to make him look at her. “You know I talked to your father about you going to live with him?”

Frank flinches, but doesn’t really feel all that surprised. “I didn’t realize this was such a big deal, I guess.”

Linda just kind of shakes her head. “Yeah, I know.”

“He’ll pick me.”

Linda pats Frank’s leg and gets up to leave. “I know, Frankie.”

This time Frank lets her because he’s about to do some serious flailing because he’s about to do some serious flailing in about point five seconds because she basically gave Frank _permission to date Gerard_.

“Don’t stay up too late, Frank.”

*

On Monday morning, Frank feels a little less than awesome, like his skin is too tight or something. Mikey hugs him and then tells him all about the concert with Pete and how they sort of hooked up in the back of this truck that they had to hitchhike back home in.

Pete hangs out with their group during lunch, where tells stories about Bob and the Nursing Home, and Mikey’s face stays a pretty constant shade of red because of Pete’s hand stayed resting on his thigh. Frank doesn’t even really say anything, just kind of smiles at Mikey and hopes that this turns out well for him.

*

On Tuesday Frank musters up a fever and Linda picks him up by noon. Neither of them speak. Both of them fight tiny smirks.

By 2:15 Frank has eaten a bowl of soup, knocked over a few potted plants with his bouncy ball, and has told Sheryl that things between them can’t continue because he’s found a new love. ( _“Oh, Frank, I am so hurt.”_ The lady has a monotone that might even rival Mikey’s.) He’s sitting on the destroyed loveseat, red bouncy ball clutched in his palm as he waits.

It’s easier to wait this way; the anticipation and anxiety is so much easier to bear—tactile fixation, he’s been told. He bounces the ball against the far wall. It _thumps_ , a hollow echo throughout the room and down the hall. It’s relaxing.

He hears a quiet murmur of voices through the wall, then a door opens and he hears approaching footsteps. Frank stills—apart from his quietly thrumming heart, lub-dubbing in his ears as his breath quickens. It goes hollow—like a space vacuum or something that just sucks all the noise—because he sees Gerard and he’s smiling and it’s everything he’s been missing. Holy light, angelic choir…it’s like every cliché Frank has ever heard of all compounded into one intense, sensory overloaded moment and he can’t. Breathe.

“Hi.”

As soon as the word is breathed, Frank finds himself staring down into Gerard’s hazel eyes, rimmed with something that isn’t eyeliner— _Charcoal, maybe? That’s so cool_.—and his knees throb and Gerard is all soft and pale beneath him. “Hi.”

Gerard makes a noise akin to a half-strangled laugh, and he chokes out, “Yeah, Mikey said you’d do that,” around a laugh. He holds Frank’s face in his hands, staring up at him with absolute glee all over his face. Frank feels his face kind of pinch, but he sniffs and feels better. Gerard wipes at Frank’s eyes. “Hey.”

Frank shudders and buries his face in the crook of Gerard’s neck. He sniffs again and then kisses the underside of Gerard’s chin. Gerard makes a really happy noise and smacks his lips. Frank giggles.


End file.
